


Perfectly Fine (Nothing to Worry About)

by entropynchaos (katonahottinroof)



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Bolivia - Freeform, Cougar is a damaged baby, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Roque is the only sane one, Shippy Gen, Warning: Helicopter crash aftermath and all the ramifications that entails, Yuletide 2013, bad coping methods and habits, drowning your sorrows in booze is not the way to go, even if he won't admit it, so is Jensen, sometimes a guy just needs his bff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katonahottinroof/pseuds/entropynchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of that Incident, no one on the team's coping too well. Except Roque, who seems to be the only one holding things together. Jensen's got a theory on that. He'd tell Cougar, but Cougar ain't talking right now... and Jensen's fine. Really. He's... fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfectly Fine (Nothing to Worry About)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radiophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiophile/gifts).



> Written for Radiophile for Yuletide 2013. Merry wishes for the season, hon, and hope you enjoy this wee fic, written just for you. A little angsty, a little fluff, a little hope - just in time for Christmas.
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: Some of the team display bad coping methods and semi self-destructive behavior. Given what they've been through, maybe they're justified... maybe not. If you would rather be warned in advance, please see the notes at the end.
> 
> Also, English is my first (and mostly only) language. I've tried with the Spanish, using my very best high school vocab, no less! And had it checked by someone who _says_ they speak Spanish, but once (hilariously) told someone that they were 'embarazada' instead of embarrassed (and this is a guy), so... fingers crossed! Please, please let me know if anything doesn't make sense. Thank you! And enjoy...

Cougar has never been the chattiest of people. (Jensen more than makes up for this – but he considers it a public service. His chatter – about anything, everything, nothing – keeps people amused. Keeps them alive… if only so they have a chance of killing him later.) After the… incident. Incident’s a good word. Saves Jensen from having to remember what the crash-site looked like, from remembering the smell of burnt human flesh that still wakes him up in the middle of the night and has him running to the bathroom to retch into the toilet. Anyway… Cougs just clams right up after that. Not a single, solitary peep makes it out of that mouth after he finished his prayers over the still-smoking wreckage.

And this is a problem – Jensen’s not stupid, okay, he knows all about PTSD and reactions to traumatic incidents and trauma induced mutism – but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t exactly stand out. Not compared to the Colonel going off the rails, Pooch talking to anyone who’ll listen about Jolene, like that’ll make her appear out of thin air (Jensen knows the Pooch misses Jolene – hell, _Jensen_ misses Jolene, as well as Bethany and Sarah – and he’s going to have to do something about that at some point).

And Roque is somehow coming out as the sanest one among them. This is never a good thing.

(As for Jensen himself? Well. He flatters himself that he’s managed to keep his crazy tucked deep within, but if he ever comes within knifing distance of the mysterious Max? Cougar and Roque give him these _looks_ sometimes, like they know what’s going through his head, but what the fuck ever. Like those two are so normal, see above, and Roque’s got his hands full with the Colonel, so…)

Pooch is the first one to get a job. They can’t rely on Roque’s poker winnings and Jensen’s pick-pocketing forever, after all, and Pooch has forever been almost preternaturally good with engines. His momma taught him how, the Pooch had told Jensen once when they were sitting watch over a Ukrainian who’d been suspected of trafficking (drugs, people, and weapons). So he gets a job fixing up beat-up motors in a garage and seems happy, for the most part. If you ignore the fact that he barely sleeps because he’s up all night worrying about Jolene, about the little Pooch-or-Poochette, about if Max has found her.

(This is something that deeply worries and angers Jensen as well. If Max has found their families. He obsessively checks the Petunias’ scores and league-standings online because if Bethie’s still playing, still scoring, then Jensen knows his sister and baby niece are safe. Thank fuck its soccer season.)

Cougar, though… Jensen’s had to drag him out of more than one bar in the couple of weeks that they’ve been stuck in Bolivia. He’s not used to being the responsible one – that’s supposed to fall to Pooch, to Cougar, to Clay, and Jensen’s the one who usually makes trouble alongside Roque. Cougar doesn’t get blind, stinking drunk, is the thing. Or, well. He never used to. Now who the fuck knows? Jensen sure as shit doesn’t, because Cougar isn’t talking and, although this has never stopped Jensen from holding up his end of the conversation before, all the non-verbal cues have gone as well. Like Cougar’s just not there. Like he’s acting on auto-pilot. Like the lights are on but nobody’s home and the blue screen of death has come down on the metaphorical computer screen of Cougar’s mind.

“Shut up,” Roque mutters. He’s deep into his first beer still, despite the fact that they’ve been at this particular dive of a bar (as opposed to all the other dives they’ve been in over the last couple of weeks) and he’s not taken his eyes off of the Colonel, constantly glaring over at the corner Clay’s in with a bottle of rotgut that’s now more empty than full and had been sealed when Clay had brought it off of the bartender.

“Won’t,” Jensen says. He’s not afraid of Roque. (This is a lie. Everyone’s afraid of Roque, to varying degrees, except the Colonel, but that’s because the Colonel is – in Jensen’s humble opinion – a couple of crackers short of a cheese plate and bizarrely fond of volatile people.) “Can’t stop the signal, buddy. Just gonna keep on coming, and then where will you be, huh?”

“Jensen, shut up.”

“Look, all I’m saying is that maybe we need a distraction, y’know? Like, Pooch has got his job, his calling, and you’ve got your…” he falters, winds up gesturing to Roque as a whole, which sort of does indicate what Jensen’s trying to say. “I need something to keep me busy. I need a purpose, Roque, a meaning, a reason to exist and as it doesn’t seem like we’re getting out of this shithole any time soon, I need something that keeps me from having to drag Cougar’s sorry ass out of yet another fucking bar.”

Jensen manages to slam his mouth shut, but way too late. Roque’s managed to tear his glare away from Clay and is now looking at Jensen like he has, in the past, looked at bombs with timers ticking down, rabid guard dogs and Clay’s latest choice in women. Like he’s afraid of what’s about to happen. Like Roque, he with the insane amount of sharp, shiny things and a serious fetish for cock-blocking Clay ‘for his own good’, is suddenly scared of Corporal Jake Jensen. And that, in itself, is some scary shit. Jensen suddenly feels sick and tired – even Cougar, on the other side of Jensen, has stopped pouring weak-ass beer and tequila down his throat like a brain-dead zombie and is instead staring at Jensen with wide, dark eyes.

“I have to… go,” Jensen says, pushing away from the bar and heading out. He’s left his beer there – still his first because Roque’s watching the Colonel and Jensen’s watching Cougar and Pooch is out, still, at the garage, and who’s watching Jensen? The door seems so far away and Jensen is so sick of this bullshit.

Two minutes later, and Jensen’s throwing up in a side-alley. He’s shaking as he straightens, his breathing’s heavy and Jensen really, really can’t take much more of this crap.

Cougar’s standing not three steps away when Jensen turns around. He holds out a bottle of water, which Jensen takes to rinse out his mouth. Cougs’ face is still frustratingly blank and Jensen is so, so tired.

“Bad burrito,” Jensen says, grinning and trying to ignore the acid-burn in the back of his throat. “Like, you’d think after thousands of shitty MREs I’d be able to handle bad food, right? Well, you’d be wrong, mi amigo. There’s stuff out there which even the famous cast-iron Jensen stomach can’t handle. I once had to eat snails, didja know that? And not even in France, which would have been understandable. On a dare! Kinda slimy. A little crunchy. Probably should have taken them out of their shells first, huh? Didn’t taste a thing like chicken.”

Cougar falls into step beside him as Jensen moves off, reaches out and gets a hold on Jensen’s elbow as he turns to go back to the bar.

“No,” Cougs says. The first fucking word Jensen’s had out of him since… it happened.

Jensen blinks. “What?”

“No,” Cougar says again. His voice sounds rusty with disuse, like he’s been gargling with knives.

“No to… what? To the bar, to…”

“Vamos a volver al hotel.”

“We’re going… fuck you, Cougar,” Jensen spits, pulling his arm loose. “You can’t just… after three fucking weeks, and the first thing that comes out of your mouth is you ordering me back to the fucking hotel? Screw you.”

There’s a look on Cougar’s face. Sort of long-suffering (Jensen’s used to that expression and not just from Cougar) and sort of this weird mix of guilty and apologetic. Cougar is _never_ apologetic.

“Lo siento.”

Jensen… deflates. No other word for it. The air, the frustration, the righteous anger just goes out of him like air from a punctured Thanksgiving Day float. Damn Cougar and his rakish good looks and ridiculous puppy-dog eyes peeking out at Jensen from under the brim of that fucking hat.

“Fine, hotel, come on,” Jensen mutters, and turns away from the bar. Roque’ll make sure the Colonel doesn’t get shanked too badly if a fight breaks out. Unless he’s the one doing the shanking. Yeah, on second thoughts, Roque’ll probably be the one holding the shank. For Clay’s ‘own good’, probably. Roque’s the weirdest mother-hen Jensen’s ever come across, seriously.

They walk, side by side, back to the fleapit they’re currently avoiding calling home. In silence, which is unusual for Jensen, but even though Cougar’s started talking again, there’s nothing to say. Jensen’s talked himself hoarse over the last couple of weeks. It’s not until they get back into the room Jensen’s sharing with Pooch and Cougs that he finally opens his mouth again.

“I didn’t mean to…” then stops again. Because what? Obviously he didn’t mean to word-vomit all over two of his superiors – although that’s never stopped him before, it’s never usually so personal.

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t invalidate my feelings, Cougs,” Jensen shoots back automatically.

One corner of Cougar’s mouth crinkles just slightly, like maybe he was thinking of smiling for a second there.

Jensen falls back onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. Across the room, Cougs moves to sit on his own bed – Jensen can track him by the creak of the old wooden floorboards, the sounds the sagging mattress makes under Cougar’s weight.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Jensen says, so quietly that he thinks maybe Cougar didn’t hear him, at first. But the silence over the other side of the room is expectant, that peculiar sort of listening silence that Jensen knows means Cougs is listening to him. Jensen’s become freaking genius at translating Cougar-silence to English over the years. “I want to go home,” he continues, still staring at the ceiling, because like hell he’s making eye-contact through _this_ particular ordeal. “I want to go back to Sarah’s and see Bethie score a goal and go to a freaking movie that isn’t dubbed and get a decent fucking wi-fi signal and everyone’s falling apart, Cougs, and you and me? We’re… we’re not supposed to be the ones that go off reservation, ya know? Like, I’ve got your back, and you’ve got mine and…”

The mattress on the other bed creaks again, and then Cougar’s padding over to Jensen’s side, pushing at him until Jensen shifts over and leaves enough room for Cougar to stretch out next to him.

“Lo siento,” Cougar murmurs, half under his breath, but just loud enough for Jensen to hear. “I did not mean…” he huffs a frustrated sigh, and resorts to action over words, like he always does. The bed jostles as Cougar rolls onto his side, dark eyes staring at the side of Jensen’s head. When he looks over, Cougar looks oddly naked, until Jensen realises that it’s because he’s missing his hat. Cougar’s hair is loose, tumbling forward from where it had been kept back under the hat, his stubble’s more like some raggedy-ass beard, now, and he looks fucking exhausted.

He looks like Jensen feels.

“Missed you,” Jensen whispers, flushing like it’s something shameful to admit, the words slipping out before he can stop them. Cougar looks even more fucking guilty at that. “Stop that. Not like it’s your fault. Just, you’re my best friend, y’know? And Pooch is great, and Roque’s, like, scary-awesome, but you’re… you.”

Cougar’s a line of warmth along the line of Jensen’s body. They’ve laid like this before, in dug-out shelters and shitty safe-houses and abandoned warehouses across most of the globe. It’s comfortable, safe. Familiar. And fuck knows Jensen needs something familiar right about now.

“Jobs,” Cougs says, and Jensen blinks, thrown.

“What?”

“A distraction,” Cougar elaborates, echoing Jensen’s rant from the bar. “Una fábrica.”

Jensen’s forehead furrows. “Factory?”

Cougar nods. “De muñecas.”

Uncalled-for visions of Cougar playing with dolls, his hair in little pigtails under his hat, cross Jensen’s mind. His brain is a sick, sick place, but it makes him laugh. Cougs doesn’t ask why, just looks slightly more content, and pokes at Jensen’s ribs until he finds that one spot that Sarah told Cougs about two years ago – Jensen’s one and only ticklish spot.

Cougar is a dirty, dirty cheater. A cheater-cheater pumpkin-eater, even.

Ten minutes later, they’re both lying in a heap on the floor, dirt in their hair and Jensen’s face flushed. He’s still breathing hard – Cougar has always won, and probably will always win, at tickle-fights. Because he plays dirty. Because he’s a sneaky little shit and not to be trusted.

Jensen tells him so, and Cougar – wonder of wonders! – huffs a near-silent laugh. It makes Jensen feel all warm and gooey inside.

“Doll factory, huh?” he asks. He feels rather than sees Cougar’s nod. Jensen takes a deep breath.

They’re not getting back to the States anytime soon. They’re still stuck in Bolivia – which, for all its charms, is not home – with, like, the entire world thinking they killed all those little kids. Their families think that they’re dead – and Sarah is going to _kick his ass_ when she finds out he isn’t. The Colonel’s going off the rails, the Pooch is spiralling into a sea of no-Jolene depression and Roque’s the only one left out of the five of them that’s close to sane. (Jensen’s of the opinion that it’s Roque’s frustrated den-mother instincts coming to the fore. It’s an opinion that he will never, ever voice, on pain of maiming and potential death at the tip of Roque’s blades.)

They do have options, though. Bright spots are starting to appear – Cougar’s talking to him again (sort of. Less than he used to, which is really saying something, but more than the last couple of weeks – Jensen’ll take it gratefully, greedily. He’ll take whatever he can get.) There’s even a job, maybe, in the offing.

“Cool. And we’re moving out of this dump. Like, asap. I’m seeing decent beds. A ceiling without holes! Minimal cockroaches! Damn, Cougs, we’ll be living the life of luxury, my man! Just think – a bathroom…” Jensen says, twisting to leer at Cougar. He waggles his eyebrows for good measure. “…with a shower that actually has hot water.”

Cougar flicks at Jensen’s forehead, like he’s not the one who’ll spend an hour or more in the shower when he can, then rolls to his feet and pulls Jensen up with him.

“Aw, yeah! I know what my boy likes!” Jensen crows. “Hot water, bay-bee! Beds which don’t, like, try to eat you in the middle of the night! Only the best for you, snookums.”

“Idiota.”

“You love it.”

There are a lot of things wrong in Jensen’s life right now. He may never see Sarah and Bethie again. His team’s limping along, barely surviving. The wi-fi in the hotel is still shitty as it can be. But he’s got his health, and he’s got his Cougs.

As far as Jensen’s concerned, life’s taking a definite upswing. And, hey – he is, after all, an optimist – they’ll probably even be home by Christmas…

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Alcohol abuse. Mentions of what the crash site looked like after Max had the 'copter shot down. People missing their families. Vomit is mentioned, although only in passing.


End file.
